SWIMMING IN THE SAHARA

Deep in the troubled province of Helmand, in Lashkar Gar, a visionary British Officer has established, of all things, a garden. The Colonel has employed Afghani gardeners to assist in both its design, realization and maintenance. Fed from a bore hole, its irrigation is guaranteed, and it has become a shady refuge for HQ ISAF staff during the heat of an Afghan day.
Reading about this garden took me back to 1986. At that time, Africa was perhaps less tumultuous than since. It was possible then to visit countries now too dangerous. Algeria was open to the adventurous, who wished to visit the real Sahara. I had long held ambitions to do so, fuelled by reading books such as Geoffrey Moorhouse's The Fearful Void.
In fact, my desert crossing goal started with the aim of a crossing of the Nubian desert. A friend of mine agreed, in a fit of (probably drunken) bravado, to come with me. The plan was a simple one. Hitch all the way. If that now seems foolhardy, I should point out that in Sudan, hitching on trucks, riding on top of the load, is commonplace, and trucks crossing the desert are plentiful. But a coup in Sudan destabilized the political situation there and made the trip inadvisable.
I formed another plan, equally simple. Hitch along the trans Sahara highway in Algeria. My friend recovered his senses and chickened out. Ah well, I thought, alone it must be. But when I mentioned my plan to another friend, who was having a very hard time indeed recovering from a broken relationship, he said "that's just what I need." Further volunteers joined up. I found myself selling my beloved Golf GTI, and replacing it with a long wheelbase Landrover Safari and kitting it out for desert travel. The plan now became Tamanrasset or bust, in the Landrover. This plan we executed, without great problems.
The garden in Lashkar Gar set me thinking about the birthday of my broken hearted friend. The date fell in the middle of our Sahara trip. Amongst our supplies we had hidden a tinned Dundee cake, candles, cards and other birthday paraphernalia for him. We woke him from his sleeping bag in the open desert with a fanfare of party hooters, and a full cooked English breakfast. Then he had his cake. "What," we asked, "would you like to do on your birthday?" The options were, shall we say, limited. It was a surprise to hear him say "go swimming." But, mad though it seems, that is what we did. About 200 - 300 miles from where we were, we had passed a signpost saying 'swimming pool'. We dismissed it as a joke, but later heard from other travellers that it was not. On this birthday, we retraced our tracks, and revisited. Sure enough, after nine or ten hours driving, at Hassi Fahl, just to the east of the trans Saharan highway, amidst fragrant lemon groves, there was a swimming pool, where, for a small charge, we could all swim, and the owner brought us complimentary glasses of homemade lemonade. It was a magical, unbelievable thing.
Algeria has had terrible troubles since my visit there. Hundreds of thousands have been killed in successive civil wars. I wonder if the swimming pool, the lemon groves and the gentle proprietors have survived. I very much doubt it.
I hope the garden at Lashkar Gar has more luck.